, that's it, is it? Your old line of business. And who employs you
now?" There was no suspicion in the tone, and had Blunt chosen to evade
the question, he might have done so without difficulty, but he replied
as one who had anticipated such questioning, and had been advised how to
answer it.

"Mrs. Purfoy."

"What!" cried Frere, scarcely able to believe his ears.

"She's got a couple of ships now, Captain, and she made me skipper of
one of 'em. We look for beshdellamare [beche-de-la-mer], and take a turn
at harpooning sometimes."

Frere stared at Blunt, who stared at the window. There was--so the
instinct of the magistrate told him--some strange project afoot. Yet
that common sense which so often misleads us, urged that it was quite
natural Sarah should employ whaling vessels to increase her trade.
Granted that there was nothing wrong about her obtaining the business,
there was nothing strange about her owning a couple of whaling
vessels. There were people in Sydney, of no better origin, who owned
half-a-dozen. "Oh," said he. "And when do you start?"

"I'm expecting to get the word every day," returned Blunt, apparently
relieved, "and I thought I'd just come and see you first, in case of
anything falling in." Frere played with a pen-knife on the table in
silence for a while, allowing it to fall through his fingers with a
series of sharp clicks, and then he said, "Where does she get the money
from?"

"Blest if I know!" said Blunt, in unaffected simplicity. "That's beyond
me. She says she saved it. But that's all my eye, you know."

"You don't know anything about it, then?" cried Frere, suddenly fierce.

"No, not I."

"Because, if there's any game on, she'd better take care," he cried,
relapsing, in his excitement, into the convict vernacular. "She knows
me. Tell her that I've got my eyes on her. Let her remember her bargain.
If she runs any rigs on me, let her take care." In his suspicious wrath
he so savagely and unwarily struck downwards with the open pen-knife
that it shut upon his fingers, and cut him to the bone.

"I'll tell her," said Blunt, wiping his brow. "I'm sure she wouldn't
go to sell you. But I'll look in when I come back, sir." When he got
outside he drew a long breath. "By the Lord Harry, but it's a ticklish
game to play," he said to himself, with a lively recollection of the
dreaded Frere's vehemence; "and there's only one woman in the world I'd
be fool enough to play it for."

Maurice Fre